


Sundays at Home

by sassyjumper



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Domestic, Gay Marriage, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-06 02:32:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5399552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassyjumper/pseuds/sassyjumper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson wants a change. House reacts accordingly.  Part of a "Domestic Bliss" series I post on LJ, wherein House and Wilson are married and living out their special version of happily-ever-after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sundays at Home

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this back in July, right after same-sex marriage was legalized in all states. I never posted it because I wasn't happy with it. But I decided to get over it.

 

 

 

House awoke to the sounds of clanging pots coming from the kitchen. Reflexively, he opened his mouth to unleash a bitch-fest, but then he remembered it was Sunday. And on the Sabbath he tolerated culinary noises, in the name of scoring the Wilsonian big breakfast.

House almost smiled as he rolled over and waited to be summoned. Depending on how he felt in that moment, he might feign a deep sleep and force Wilson to come into the bedroom. He would then lodge standard complaints about being disturbed so early on his day off, until he earned the heavy sigh. From there, he’d slowly climb out of bed like he was doing Wilson a favor, pop a pill, and comment snidely on the scents wafting from the kitchen. He’d eventually make his way to the table, where he’d show his appreciation by downing the lion’s share of the meal -- which, acknowledged or not, Wilson truly did enjoy.

_What a sap._

He really did love Sundays.

****

“What the hell is this?” House demanded as he plopped down at the table, pointing at the sludge-like concoction in Wilson’s dainty jam jar.

Wilson set down two plates stacked with pancakes and bacon then crossed his arms. “It’s a date puree. You can spread it on the pancakes.”

House gaped. “You don’t _spread_ things on pancakes. You pour. Have you ever spread Mrs. Butterworth?” He paused. “Oh, wait. Of course you have.”

Wilson offered a tight smile. “Of course. Can we eat now?”

“Good question. Pureed dates?”

“Just try it. It’s sweet, but it’s much better for you than supermarket syrup.” Wilson shuddered slightly.

“Once you decide on pancakes and pork products, I think health concerns are out the window,” House continued to gripe, hoping to camouflage the fact that he was reaching for the condiment under dispute.

“The pancakes are made with spelt flour,” Wilson informed him, looking far too smug for a man talking about whole grains. “And the bacon is low-sodium. I used a spice rub to add flavor.”

House nabbed a sample of said bacon and took a bite. “Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed before he’d even swallowed. He hadn’t been expecting such a taste sensation—slightly sweet but mostly spicy, with a flavor profile he couldn't readily identify.

The smugness only grew. “You like it?”

“Duh.” House reached for another bacon slab but paused to leer. “After breakfast, how about I test that _special rub_ on you?”

Wilson maintained the annoying smirk. “Well. I did make extra.”

For a moment, House was conflicted about whether he should polish off the bacon or get right to the Wilson. But then the latter started talking.

“I thought we should have kind of a…special day.”

_Uh-oh._ “Why?”

“To celebrate.”

“What?”

Eye-roll. “Gay marriage becoming the law of the land? I mean, did you honestly think we’d see that happen any time soon? Or even in our lifetime?”

House pointed his bacon at Wilson. “I am not getting married again.”

Wilson held up a hand. “Me, neither. Two ceremonies with you are more than enough. I'm not even counting that time you abandoned me at the altar.”

House narrowed his eyes. The little bastard just couldn’t let that one go.

_Spice-rub sex,_ he reminded himself, then gritted his teeth. “What do you have in mind?”

Wilson shrugged. “I don't know, exactly. I just thought we could do something we don’t normally do on a day off.”

“Spice-rub sex.”

Wilson nodded. “Well, yes. We can do that later. I’m talking about something we can spend the day doing.”

House put his forearms on the table. “Do I need to say it again?”

“No. You don’t.” Wilson took a breath. “I was thinking—” He glanced at House, seemingly nervous about his next words. “Maybe a picnic.”

House sat back in his chair. “Well, that’s definitely gay.”

“You have something against gay?” Wilson shot back. “And how is a picnic gay? Humans go on picnics. It’s human. Is that the problem?”

“The humans are not my fave,” House conceded. “But the real problem is, picnicking is stupid. I can have a bug-free sandwich right here in my own home, and not even get out of my PJs.”

Wilson flapped a hand. “Fine. No picnic. How about a drive to New Hope? It’s a beautiful day to walk around.”

House clasped his hands together. “I do love spending an hour in the car and then walking around as much as possible. Almost as much as I love antique shops.”

Wilson blatantly shifted to puppy-eye mode. “I’ll only stop by one or two.”

Luckily, marriage had somehow strengthened House’s defenses against such tactics. Along with tax advantages, it was one of the benefits of legal marriage.

“There is no way I’m going to No Hope, Pennsylvania, on my day off,” he declared. “Pout all you want, buddy.”

House returned his attention to his plate, refusing to acknowledge the eyes boring into his skull as he inhaled his pancakes.

“OK,” Wilson finally said, in his faux-pleasant manner. “Let’s stay home and talk.”

House looked up in alarm. “Why?”

Wilson smiled, with just a hint of pure evil.

“Let’s go antiquing,” House said.

Wilson simply sat back and put his napkin on the table. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. About where we should go from here.”

House decided extreme caution was in order. “From here?”

Wilson nodded. “We’ve been married for almost a year, and you haven’t threatened to throw me out for a couple months now.”

“I've been busy.”

“My point is, we seem to be working out well, don’t you think?”

House pondered that. _Yeah, pretty much._

“Yeah, pretty much.”

Wilson pressed his lips together. “Thank you for agreeing,” he said after a beat. “So I think we’re ready to consider the next step.”

House could only stare, completely at a loss for— _Oh wait, holy shit, no way!_

“We are _not_ having a gayby.”

The death glare was instant, but House was unfazed. “Your eggs are all dried up at this point,” he continued, reaching desperately for deflection. “I mean, you’re clearly perimenopausal.”

“House.”

He pushed to stand. “No, no, no. You’re going through your thing again.”

“What thing?”

House began to limp-pace. “The thing where you suddenly decide your life isn’t good enough. But instead of gay-divorcing me, you wanna add a gay baby.”

“I’m not sure you can pre-order a gay one.”

House wagged an index finger. “I’m not letting you do this. Remember the last time you wanted a kid, and I had to hire a child actor to pretend he was your long-lost son who wanted to live with you because his mother was moving them to Costa Rica?”

Wilson blinked. “It’s incredible that I have to say ‘yes’ to that question.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re conveniently missing the point here. You never learn.”

Wilson raised his ridiculous eyebrows. “Oh?”

“Oh?” House mocked. He stopped pacing and placed his hands on the back of his chair. “People think I’m the impulsive one. But you’re worse, because you’re Mr. Steady and Reliable—until you’re not.”

House paused to allow the sting of truth to sink in. Wilson, however, just set his jaw and glowered.

“OK,” he said, with phony patience. “I’m not sure where this tirade is coming from, but if I may interject…”

House rolled his eyes.

“Let me first clarify something,” Wilson said, in his annoying _Let me clarify something_ tone. “I have no interest in fathering gay babies or straight ones. No one should live with you without informed consent.”

He brandished the Index Finger of Don’t Even, just as House was opening his mouth.

“Secondly. Does it ever occur to you to let me finish a thought before dragging us both through the labyrinth of doom that is your mind?”

“But honey, you have so, so many thoughts—”

“ _All_ I wanted to talk about was this.” Wilson made a sweeping gesture with his hand.

House squinted. “What? You’ve finally nailed that move from the Missy Elliott video?”

Wilson sighed. “Nooo. I just think it’s time we considered finding a bigger place. Y’know, something we could buy together.”

House blinked. _Oh._

“But,” Wilson said as he stood up, “this doesn’t seem like the best time.” He picked up their plates and started toward the kitchen.

“Hey,” House said quickly. But when Wilson turned and looked at him, all he could say was, “I’m not done with that.”

Wilson silently replaced the plate then walked away.

House chewed his lip as he considered his next move. He could continue to eat bacon and let Wilson work through his pout; that tactic had always served him pretty well. Plus, it involved eating more bacon.

On the other hand, this situation seemed like one of those Important Marriage Moments. Ignoring Wilson could be perilous.

On the other, other hand, Wilson apparently wanted to move, and that did not sit well. House was perfectly comfortable where he was. It was his place, with his stuff—all exactly the way he liked. Why would he want to change?

Letting Wilson move in, with his tie rack and NutriBullet, seemed like concession enough. Not to mention the marriage part.

House tapped his fingers on the chair, gazing at the remains of their breakfast and listening to the sink run. Then without consciously deciding, he found himself walking to the kitchen. He’d always liked talking to Wilson while he did the dishes; there was no problematic eye contact, and he could watch Wilson’s ass.

“So you don’t like this place.” he said as he leaned against the doorway.

“I didn’t say that,” Wilson replied, scrubbing away at a pan.

“Then why would we move?”

“Listen, I know you’re attached to this place. I just thought we could look at something bigger—maybe even a house.” Wilson seemed to have found a particularly stubborn spot to scrub.

“Yeah. It would be great to have some stairs to climb.”

“Or space for you to have an office.”

“So you can bitch that I’m always in my office.”

Wilson turned around and leaned against the counter. “I wouldn’t do that. It would be good for us to have a little space.”

House smiled knowingly. “Ah. So you _are_ getting the itch.”

Wilson furrowed his brow. “No, I’m not getting an _itch._ Come on—We live together, work together, go out together. It’s OK to admit we need a little distance sometimes.”

House pushed away from the wall. “You need it. I’m fine.”

Wilson crossed his arms. “OK. Then I need it. And—and I won’t feel guilty about that.”

House scoffed. “Of course you will. And then you’ll resent feeling guilty. And then your eye will start wandering. Not the one that always wanders—the other one.”

Wilson laughed humorlessly then looked skyward. “God, can’t anything be simple with you?”

“Um, no?”

“This is not a prelude to cheating on you. I just want a couple extra rooms.”

“You’re getting antsy. You want change. That’s always how it begins.”

Wilson growled and tossed his dish towel on the counter. “I wanna buy a house together. That’s commitment, you ass.”

House bobbed his head side to side. “Some might see it that way.”

“Some who are sane.” Wilson shook his head. “You know what? Forget I said anything. I don’t need to move. Really.”

House studied him as he returned to his passive-aggressive cleaning. It was possible, of course, that Wilson only wanted more square footage. But he couldn’t help wondering _why._

As if on cue, Wilson sighed wearily. “It’s not because I’m tired of you,” he muttered to the sink. “Incredibly enough.”

House watched him put a pan in the drying rack and then move to wipe down the stove. House liked that stove, and the way the light came into the kitchen in the morning. He liked the high ceilings and old-school fixtures, and the way the hot water was always too hot—and unavailable between 10 a.m. and noon.

The place had quirks and charm and weird little nooks if you actually looked. It was perfect.

House watched as Wilson retrieved his broom and dust pan. He must have gotten some of his precious spelt flour on the floor. He shook his head as Wilson maneuvered his over-sized posterior so he could sweep around the butcher block.

“OK,” he heard himself say.

Wilson paused and looked over his shoulder. “OK what?”

House scratched at his stubble. “We can look around. But I’m not promising anything.”

“I told you to forget it. It’s fine—”

“Well, I changed my mind,” House cut in, as irritably as possible. “You might be right. Incredibly enough.”

Wilson eyed him, looking unsure. “Um. OK. We can talk to a realtor next week, maybe.”

House nodded. “Just not Bonnie.”

Wilson smiled softly. “Right.”

House ducked his head so he wouldn’t smile back. “Fine.”

As he limped back to the living room, he kept up the conversation. “But that still leaves us with the dilemma of what to do today. I think you know my position on the matter.”

He heard Wilson chuckle. “Yes, I’m pretty clear.”

House flopped onto the couch just as Wilson emerged from the kitchen. He crossed his arms and gave House that _look._

“Are you saying yes to the realtor just to get me in a good mood?”

House feigned hurt.

Wilson splayed his hands. “Sorry.”

“I have no agenda,” House assured, spreading his legs in the least subtle manner possible. “I just wanna celebrate a great moment in this country’s history by coating you in spices and slowly licking them off. It’s my duty as a gay American.”

Wilson cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, his voice delightfully strained, “I’ll have to break out the special condiment bedding.”

House nodded. “Martha Stewart thinks of everything.”

Wilson flashed him another smile—this one a little dirtier—before disappearing down the hall.

House glanced around the living room, feeling a little twinge in his gut. He’d be lying if he said he was ready to move. On the other hand, he’d been taking a lot of chances in the past couple years—ones that didn’t involve sticking knives into electrical sockets or jumping from balconies. Ones that were a lot scarier.

And somehow, he was OK.

_Go figure._

He pushed to his feet to retrieve Wilson’s marinade. Yep—he really loved Sundays.

 

 

_—End_


End file.
